Bioshock: The Novel
by Nomanisat
Summary: This is my attempt to convert the story and events of the first Bioshock game into a novel. Each level or section will be turned into one chapter.


**Chapter I: Bioshock**

**1960**

**Mid-Atlantic**

Jack had never been so cold in all his life. His frozen mind tried to grasp what had happened, but it only came to him in short, jarring bursts: An airplane cabin, thick with cigarette smoke, a gift box sitting in his lap, the tag identifying who it was for unclear, a flash of his family. Any more thoughts were dispersed by the burning in his lungs. Jack snapped his eyes open. Everything was pitch-black, and he couldn't see anything, but he guessed by his inability to breath and the pervasive, bone-chilling cold he was underwater. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that it wasn't pitch black, but a deep murky blue.

A sudden grinding noise, like a cement truck being driven underwater came from somewhere to his right, and as he turned, he saw the fuselage of an airplane rapidly sinking past him not five feet away, it's suction gently tugging him. As Jack watched it sink, he could see a blue light emanating from the plane's shattered windows. The ache in his lungs was becoming unbearable. Using the direction the plane sunk as a reference for down, Jack looked up towards what he hoped was the surface and began swimming with all his might. He could see there was a warm orange glow above him, but his oxygen-deprived mind couldn't fathom what it was.

The surface looked deceivingly close as Jack struggled upwards. Already there was a blackness seeping in at the corners of his vision, threatening to close in and pull him into an eternal darkness. Just as he was about to pass out, Jack felt his hand break the surface of the water, and a second later his face came up. Jack took a huge breath of the sweetest, most wonderful air he'd ever known. As he continued to breath, the blackness receded and he began to think clearly again. He noticed there was a strange smell and taste to the air, like gasoline or kerosene. It was then that he noticed that it very warm above the surface, and realized that the strange orange glow he had seen from below was a raging fire burning on the surface of the ocean. It was a strange sensation to be freezing cold from the shoulders down and at the same time have your head on the verge of burning. The flames were a safe distance away, but as far as Jack could see, he was completely surrounded by the ring of flames and smoke. All around him there was debris floating in the water, seat cushions, papers, a women's purse. Jack called out, but nowhere did Jack see or hear any indications of other survivors.

As Jack floated on the surface, he could see the ocean currents were spreading the burning jet fuel away, and had opened a path way through the flames. Jack figured he was safer outside of the fire then he was in the middle of it, and began to swim towards the gap. Every stroke was a challenge, as his spread-out body lost more and more of its precious heat to the cold, penetrating water. As he swam through the gap in the flames, the heat intensified, so much so the Jack contemplated going back underwater to escape the heat. But as soon as it started it was over and Jack soon found himself free of the flame.

Now that he was outside the flames, he began scanning the horizon for any sign of a ship, plane or dry land. It was then, once he was out of the glare and smoke of the fire, that he noticed a different light. Unlike the warm glow of the fire, this light was a harsh white, the kind that only a man-made source can produce. He turned and saw a huge black shape, darker then the surrounding sky. At the top of this shape was a large revolving light, casting its harsh beam of light out over the ocean. A lighthouse.

Jack felt a wave of relief wash over him. People only built lighthouses when there was a dangerous shore to warn ships about, and that meant there was land nearby. Moreover, a lighthouse meant a lighthouse keeper to watch the light mechanism and keep it running, and he, she, or they must have heard the crash and radioed it in. Jack somehow couldn't remember where the plane was going, or how long it had been in the air, so Jack had no idea which side of the Atlantic Ocean he was on, but at the moment, he wasn't all that concerned. As he got closer to the structure, he could see it in more detail. It was huge, over 300 feet tall, and octangular. Jack found this rather odd. Any lighthouses he had seen were always round, to better resist the waves and wind, but this one was an eight-sided shape. The building was positioned on a tiny little spurt of rock, barely higher then the surrounding water.

A loud gurgling noise to his left broke Jack's train of thought. He turned and saw the back section of the plane had slid off the rocky island and was slowly sinking into the waters surrounding the island. Jack could see against all odds the red navigation light on the tip of the tail was still feebly blinking, Jack turned back towards the lighthouse and saw something odd. There was a staircase of wide, low steps carved into the rock of the island, spiraling up around towards the other side of the island. The other end of the staircase seemed to strangely continue down under the water's surface, as if the whole island had sunk and submerged whatever was at the bottom of the stairs. At the end of each staircase was a pair of ornate bronze lamps, about 5 feet high, the served to illuminate the staircase. They seemed far too opulent and out of place on the rough stone steps. One of the lamps near the water's edge was broken, its base emitting the occasional spark.

Jack reached out with numb hands and grasped the edge of the stone stairs. They were slippery with algae, and he carefully pulled himself up onto the first dry landing. Jack laid there, his back pressed against the cold wet stone, catching his breath, and trying to warm up. Looking down into the water, he could see points of light just under the water's surface, realizing the stairs did indeed carry on down underwater, along with the ornate bronze lamps.

A sudden gust of wind hit Jack, causing him to shiver and spurring him to action. He climbed unsteadily to his feet, his cold joints aching in protest. He slowly made his way upwards, careful not to slip and fall on the slick, wet stairs. By the time the stairs reached the lighthouse, they had curved all the way around to the opposite side of the island, and Jack could no longer see the crash site, just the light from the still-burning fires. Jack was getting confused. He'd been all the way around the island and hadn't seen any sign of land. Jack had never heard of a lighthouse in the open ocean before.

As Jack approached the lighthouse doors, he felt a wave of trepidation. There was still no sign of anyone here, no sounds except the oceans dull roar in the background.

Jack's fear grew more palpable as he approached the double doors leading into the lighthouse interior. The door's were massive, nearly 20 feet tall, and cast out of solid bronze. The doors had an intricate bas-relief mural on them, depicting a stylized man reaching up towards the heavens, his hands cradling the sun. At his feet a fantastic city spread out before him. The doors had once been burnished to a bright finish, but the sea air had started to oxidize them to a dull sheen.

One of the doors was open slightly, revealing the pitch black interior of the lighthouse. Jack was really nervous now. There was an almost tangible evil to this place, and his primal fears urged him to turn back. Despite this, the rational center of Jack's brain knew there was nowhere else to go. Tentatively, Jack walked into the darkened lighthouse. It was pitch-black; the only light a slim wedge coming in the open door. The doors swayed slightly in the breeze, creaking quietly. _"Like a Goddamn haunted house,"_ Jack thought.

All of a sudden, the double doors swung shut, and the lighthouse interior was plunged into total blackness. Jack's pulse sky-rocketed and a jolt of adrenaline surged through his veins. _"__Just__ like a Goddamn haunted house,"_ he thought. Unable to think of anything better, he froze, completely un-moving. He stood still in the darkness for what seemed to Jack like hours. Suddenly Jack heard a loud _thunk_ as a solenoid closed, and an electric light came on, closely followed by several more.

Jack could see immediately that this was no ordinary lighthouse. The entire room appeared to be made of polished marble or granite. A stone walkway wrapped around both sides of the room, the center left open. Jack could see no stairs leading up to the light mechanism above, and the ceiling was decorated with an ornate design made of a rose colored opaque glass. Hanging on the wall directly across from the doors was a massive bronze bust, twenty times life size. The subject was an angry, arrogant looking man. Hung underneath the bust was a crimson banner with the words "No gods or kings, only men" written in large gold letters. On the railing around the open center was a small plaque. It read: "In what county could a man like me exist?", and the name Andrew Ryan underneath.

Jack looked back up at the bust and idly wondered if this was Andrew Ryan, and more importantly why there was a plaque quoting him in a lighthouse in the middle of the ocean. As more lights snapped on, he saw a pair of dark openings, staircases that wrapped down behind the bust on the wall. Every fiber of Jack's being told him that there was something bad down those stairs. Yet, he began to hesitantly walk towards them, as if he'd lost control of his body. But in a moment the feeling passed, and his steps became more confident. The stairs turned out to be short, only going down one storey. They opened up onto a circular platform, similar to the floor above. In the ceiling Jack could see the circular opening he had first observed when he entered the lighthouse.

Just like the floor above, there was a circular opening in the floor here too. However, this one was open to the sea, the water gently lapping at the edges of the pool. Sitting in the pool was the strangest craft Jack had ever seen. As he descended another set of stairs down to the level of the pool, he studied the odd vessel. It was a rough spherical shape, approximately twenty-five feet in diameter. It appeared to be made of copper, its hull a red-brown metallic colour. Judging by the marine growth around the waterline, and that the copper had begun to turn a green-white in places, it had been here for quite some time. Seemingly random items stuck out from the hull: aerials, propellers, lights. The front of the craft was dominated by a large open door, made from a single panel of two inch thick glass. Strangely, a sculpted metal fish projected over the door, an odd feature on what was otherwise a starkly functional vehicle.

Jack carefully peaked in the open hatch. The space inside was small, around 18 feet across, suggesting the hull was very thick. It was furnished like a luxury yacht, with teak floors, and a pair of thickly padded benches on each side of the door. The interior was warmly illuminated with recessed lights in the ceiling. But time had started to take its toll here too, rust staining joints in the ceiling, the varnish on the teak starting to peel. Jack noticed something odd about the vessel. Besides a lever mounted on a pedestal in the center of the cabin, there were no controls or gauges anywhere on the sub. Jack was no expert on submarines by any stretch, but anything he'd ever read or seen of them had depicted them festooned with controls.

There was a delicious warmth emanating from the sub's cabin, and Jack carefully edged his way in and sat on one of the benches. It bobbed slightly as he stepped aboard, but otherwise nothing happened. As Jack sat there, his gaze kept drifting back to the lever in the center of the cabin. He felt himself being inexorably drawn to it. A thought popped suddenly into Jack's head. Maybe the lever served as a kind of key, something that would activate some hidden, more extensive control suite. He reached out with tentative fingers, slowly wrapping them around the lever. After a moment's hesitation, he pulled it down.

Jack knew immediately he had screwed up. Even as he turned, the massive glass door swung closed, sealing itself with a squeak. As Jack walked towards the door, he was thrown onto one of the benches, as the submarine began to dive with alarming speed. Outside the window, Jack could see the sub was traveling inside a stone tunnel that extended a considerable distance under the lighthouse's foundation. Large sculpted figures were set into the wall of the tunnel, each one holding a plaque that listed the current depth.

Just as the sub cleared the bottom of the tunnel and dropped into open water, Jack heard a whirring sound up above his head, and to his surprise, a movie screen dropped down over the door. Despite there being no visible projector, the screen flickered to life. Jack didn't know what he was expecting to appear, but it wasn't an advertisement. An image appeared of a man offering a woman a light for her cigarette, yet the man held no apparent lighter or matches. Across the top of the ad was the word INCINERATE!

Before Jack could study the picture further, it flicked off, and a new picture replaced it. A man in an evening jacket sat in a plush leather armchair, behind an ornate wooden desk. He looked vaguely familiar, and it took Jack a second before he recognized it as the subject of the large bust in the lighthouse lobby. In the corner of the screen were the words "From the desk of Andrew Ryan." A voice came across the small speakers in the sub's walls. It sounded grainy, like it was being played off a worn record.

"I'm Andrew Ryan," the voice said, "and I'm here to ask you a question: Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his own brow?"

The picture changed to an image of a farmer standing in his field, his hand raised to wipe his forehead, while his wife and child looked on.

"No says the man in Washington, it belongs to the poor."

The picture changed, now showing the farmer running from a giant eagle flying at him from the US congress building.

"No says the man in the Vatican, it belongs to God."

The eagle became a giant hand reaching from the heavens, with St. Peter's square in the background.

"No says the man in Moscow, it belongs to everyone."

The hand became a giant hammer and sickle, framed against the Kremlin.

As Jack watched the screen, the image changed back to Ryan in his chair.

"I rejected those answers. Instead, I chose something different. I chose the impossible. I chose… Rapture!"

The screen dropped away with a dramatic flourish. The submarine crested an underwater mountain ridge, and the sight beyond left Jack speechless. An entire city sat on the ocean floor, dozens of skyscrapers covered in neon signs and lights thrust up from the rocky ocean floor. Jack couldn't believe his eyes. Here was a city the equal of any on the surface, yet it sat two miles underwater. As the sub entered the city limits, Jack pressed his face up against the glass window of the sub.

The buildings were obviously of a much more advanced construction then any on the surface, they would have to be to survive the incredible forces of the deep ocean yet their design reminded Jack of buildings built decades before, covered in rich designs and patterns, decorative statues and motifs that had gone out of favor after the war.

Slowly, Jack became aware that the man called Ryan had resumed his speech.

"A city where the artist would not fear the censor. Where the scientist would not be bound by petty morality. Where the great would not be constrained by the small. And with the sweat of your brow, Rapture can become your city as well."

As the sub silently swam through the underwater city, Jack could make out hundreds of neon signs on the buildings, advertising products Jack had never imagined. Below his feet, a massive whale swam slowly between the skyscrapers, eating fish attracted to the lights from the city. Glass tunnels spanned the gaps between the buildings, linking them like a vast spider web. In one tunnel, Jack saw a massive man in an old-fashioned diving suit, presumably repairing a leak or some such, he thought.

Something had been bothering Jack since his little sub had entered the undersea city, but he couldn't place his unease until now. It came to him suddenly: there were no people anywhere. Jack had not seen a single person besides the man in the diving suit since he entered the city. Obviously Jack didn't expect to see people in swim trunks and goggles swimming up and waving through the windows, but he hadn't seen anyone in any of those glass tunnels he had seen. And no city Jack had ever heard of could function without traffic or vehicles yet, except for Jack and his tiny pod, the sea was empty.

Jack was snapped out of his reverie by a crackle of static. It was coming from a small metal service radio on the wall that Jack hadn't noticed until now. It had apparently received a conversation between a man with a rich Irish brogue, and an American man who spoke with nervous voice.

"… lighthouse is all lit up like hellfire. Looks like some sort of plane crash."

".. but we're in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. How could it…" The American asked.

"… dunno." Replied the Irishman, "you best get over there, and be quick about it… the splicers are coming."

Jack's sub was now approaching a series of metal rings that formed a guide way towards an opening in the side of one of the larger buildings. He emerged into a vertical shaft similar to the one under the lighthouse above. As he rose, the radio conversation continued.

'You got to be kidding," the American whined, "How do you know someone's even coming?"

"'cause," the Irishman replied, "we got a bathysphere on its way down. That means we've got company."

**Chapter 2: Welcome To Rapture**

Jack could tell something was wrong the moment the submarine broke the surface of the airlock into the terminal. There were no lights on anywhere; the only illumination was a narrow strip of dull light leaking in from an open window across the room, the light diluted by the murky water. A figure could be seen standing in the room, his form only a black outline against the pale light. His right hand held what looked like a pistol or revolver, his left a small box that he lifted to his mouth occasionally, which Jack realized must be a portable radio.

The figure raised the box to his mouth, and his words came in over the radio on the wall.

"O-okay, just one more minute, the 'sphere, the 'sphere is coming up now…"

The Irishman's panicked voice came back almost immediately:

"Johnny, security's bangin' off all over, get a move on!"

Jack saw something drop down behind the man –Johnny-, the thing resolved into another person, hunched and slinking. Like Johnny, it was only an outline. Jack didn't hear the thing fall, but Johnny obviously did, because he spun around. He started to back away from the other person, obviously terrified. The other figure stepped towards Johnny, and the changing light revealed it held a large hook in each hand, glinting sinisterly in the dull light. Strangely Johnny made no effort to use his gun.

Johnny's scared voice crackled over the radio, obviously unaware he was transmitting.

"Please lady…" he begged, "I didn't mean no trespass. Just don't hurt me... Just let me go... you can keep my gun… you can…"

Any further discourse was cut off. The strange women suddenly leapt forward, the hooks on her hand flashed in the light, and Johnny's pleas gave way to a high pitched scream. The gun and radio fell from his hands and he grasped at his stomach. Even in the dark, and at this distance, Jack could see the blood pooling around Johnny's feet, a slowly expanding black stain. Johnny's scream petered out into a terrible gurgle, and he fell to the floor where his moved feebly for a few seconds before becoming still.

Some sixth sense made Jack shrink out of the light against the sides of the sub, hidden in the dark. It was lucky he did, because at that moment the strange women choose to look up, and seemingly noticed the submarine for the first time. She stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, examining the submarine, blood still dripping from the wicked hooks on her hands. Suddenly she spoke, her voice low and silky.

"Is it someone new?' she asked quietly.

Jack decided no answer was the best choice, and shrunk back as tight as he could, taking short, quiet breaths.

The lack of an answer seemed to enrage the woman. She let out a shriek of rage, and then she leapt _over_ the submersible. Jack would never have believed it if he hadn't seen it himself. The sub sat ten feet tall even partially submerged, and she was thirty feet away, yet she made the jump, and from a standstill. The submarine rocked as she landed on the roof. There was a savage grunt, and suddenly the sub's lights and electronics went out, accompanied by the sound of tearing metal. _She was ripping the sub open!_ Jack thought. He jumped as a cascade of hot sparks fell down his back.

There was another shout of rage from the roof of the sub, then it rocked one last time, and everything fell silent. Jack lay there silently, listening. All he could hear was the sound of water lapping quietly against the hull, and the soft sizzle of the sub's fried electronics.

When the voice crackled over the radio on the wall Jack jumped so hard he thought is heart had stopped. It was the Irishman he had heard talking to the late Johnny, and he was apparently talking to him.

"Would you kindly pick up that shortwave radio?" it asked. Jack crossed the sub, careful to avoid any sparks still falling from the ceiling. The radio had somehow survived the attack unharmed, safely in its cradle. Fortunately the radio was a simple and intuitive design, with very few controls or dials. A small dial on the face indicated frequency, another dial the radio's volume. A button on the side served to transmit. It was light and easily hooked onto Jack's belt.

"I don't know how you survived that plane crash," the man said, "but I've never been one to question Providence. I'm Atlas, and I aim to keep you alive. Now keep on movin'… we're gonna have to get you to higher ground."

Almost as if on cue, the door of the sub popped open with a loud hiss. Jack instinctively shrunk back, fearful the women who had killed Johnny was still in the area and would hear. But after a few moments the area remained still and quiet.

Atlas' voice crackled out of the radio, and Jack scrambled to turn it down before it gave him away.

"Take a deep breath and step out of the bathysphere; I won't leave you twistin' in the wind."

Jack put his hands on the frame of the sub's door, and tentatively stuck his head out, cautiously listening for any noise. Like atlas suggested, Jack took a deep breath to steady his nerves. He was immediately assaulted by a variety of strange smells: the must and mildew of an abandoned building, wet stone, fish, dust, and the faint tinge of rot and decay. There was another smell, strong and coppery, which Jack remembered from his days in the army. It was blood.

Atlas's voice filtered through Jack's radio: "We're gonna need to draw her out of hiding, but you're gonna have to trust me."

"_Yeah right, you first"_ Jack thought to himself.

As Jack exited the submarine, the lights began to flicker on, and more helpfully, the remaining window shutters opened, allowing the same murky light Jack saw before to flood the room. As Jack's eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could finally see the scope of the room he was in. It was set up like a large train station on the surface. The majority of the space was water, with around seven or eight airlocks in the floor which Jack assumed led to tunnels like the one he had just entered through. Each end of the room had a large platform, like you'd find in a train station. Little jetties led out from the platform to the docking areas. The ceiling over head was a huge glass affair, two half-cylinders, a smaller one atop the larger bottom.

Jack was still staring slack-jawed at the ceiling when he stepped onto the platform, and was awarded for his inattention by tripping on something large and falling flat on his face. Nursing a sore knee and mumbling a string of expletives, Jack sat up to see what he had tripped over.

It was only then that Jack saw the mounds of suitcases piled everywhere. There must have been at least fifty, some heaped in piles near the base of massive support pillars to get them out of the way, others scattered singularly or in small groups where they were dropped. Scattered amoung the suitcases were large handheld signs, like you would see at a protest or rally, their white paper speckled with mold. They were covered with slogans like "LET US GO!' and "RYAN DOESN"T OWN US!" and most disturbingly, "RAPTURE IS FINISHED!" Jack looked over to the still form of Johnny lying near by. Whatever had happened here, it wasn't a recent development. Jack opened a few of the suitcases and found the random assortment of clothes and small personal affects you'd expect someone to carry when trying to flee somewhere.

Jack got up slowly and made his way to the large windows in the wall nearby, threading his way through the suitcases. They windows were massive, each one three feet across and stretching from floor to ceiling measured nearly thirty feet high. Yet, as Jack examined them, they appeared to be no more then a couple inches thick. Jack gently rapped the window with his knuckle, listening to the sound it made. Whatever these windows were made of, it wasn't glass, and it would have had to be fantastically tough to resist the crushing pressure this deep underwater.

Jack shifted his focus to the view outside. This deep underwater all sunlight would have been long filtered out, so the light coming in the window must be from other parts of the city itself. Outside, Jack could see the murky outline of other buildings, slowly drifting in and out of view, like they were in a fog. They were covered with neon signs, but Jack couldn't read them because of the distortion from the water. Farther away the buildings seemed to get taller, until they reached a massive tower, easily twice as high as its neighbors. Jack assumed it must have been one of the first, built in the city center.

Stepping away from the window, Jack looked down the platform. At the far end a wide staircase went up and to the left, and it appeared to be the only exit. Jack started towards them. As he passed one of the large stone support pillars, a notice fastened to it caught his attention. It was framed and protected by glass, printed on an official looking paper with "Rapture Metro" as its letterhead across the top. It said: "ATTENTION: ALL BATHYSPHERE TRAVEL NOW RESTRICTED." This made Jack uneasy. Whatever was going on here was bad enough to force the people in charge to halt all movement in order to stop its spread.

Jack threaded his way through the suitcases towards the stairs at the end of the platform. He slowed his pace to a crawl and, putting his back against the wall, quietly crept up the stairs. The station's lighting had completely failed here, the only light coming from a row of large television screens mounted along the wall. They were strangely styled, with no case holding all the internal electronics they looked like picture tubes someone had hung on the wall. Whatever they normally played was gone, replaced with static. As he walked past, one of the screens exploded, sending out a shower of white sparks that sent Jack scrambling out of the way.

Nothing Jack saw as he progressed made him feel any better. There had obviously been some serious fighting going on here. Like the bathysphere platform, the edges of the room were dominated by large stone columns. But here several of them had been toppled over, shattering and littering the floor with sofa-sized pieces of stone. Overhead was a large destination board, like you'd find in any airport of train station. It had been pulled out of the ceiling and now hung from its wires, the lights inside it flickering faintly.

"Just a bit further…" Atlas began. Jack froze. He could hear a ghostly female voice, echoing from up ahead. He recognized it as the woman who had killed Johnny. Suddenly a shadowy dropped down from the ceiling, right in front of Jack. Before he could even react, the woman was illuminated by a brilliant spotlight from somewhere up in the darkened ceiling. For the first time Jack got a good look at her. She was wearing a filthy dress that may have been a baby blue at one point, but was now a grey-black. Her hair was long, past her shoulders, and was matted and clumped together. The hooks Jack had assumed she was carrying were actually strapped to her forearms. Her face was hidden, covered by what looked like a porcelain rabbit mask, the kind one would wear at a fancy masquerade ball.

"How do you like that, sister?" Atlas crowed. The women stood stock-still, blinded by the glare of the search light. The light had coincided with some kind of alarm going off, and what sounded like an out of tune lawnmower or outboard engine. Jack looked up and saw two of the strangest looking machines he'd ever seen in his life. They _were_ outboard motors, and they were flying. A large rotor coming out the top of the devices provided lift, while the regular outboard propeller was used to move and guide the vehicles. Two lights on the front of the machines added to the illumination of the woman.

Jack raised the radio to his mouth, about to ask Atlas what these things were, when the air was suddenly filled with the sound of automatic gunfire. Jack dropped to the floor and covered his head, the echoing sound reverberating around the stone room made it impossible to tell where it was coming from initially. When he realized the gunfire hadn't hit him, and wasn't aimed at him, he looked up. Whatever maniac had made these machines hadn't been content with making an outboard motor fly; they'd also mounted a machine gun on them, which they were currently using on the homicidal women caught in the spotlight.

Jack saw some of the bullets hit; saw the gouts of blood and the twitches of her clothes as the bullets passed through her. But rather than fall, she let out an enraged scream and jumped back up into the darkness of the ceiling, the two machines in hot pursuit. Jack suddenly felt cold and light-headed. Whatever that woman was, she wasn't human. He felt very glad he hadn't had to fight her. With the woman and her machine assailants gone, the room was again filled with oppressive silence.

Jack's radio crackled to life: "Would you kindly find a crowbar or something?" Atlas asked. "Bloody splicers sealed Johnny in before they… goddamn splicers." Atlas's voice trailed off. Jack searched around, looking for something he could use as a weapon. It had become readily apparent to him that it was very unwise to be unarmed in this city. He cursed himself for not grabbing Johnny's pistol when he had the chance. His search took him to the far end of the room. A large door had been blocked open with large chunks of cement, keeping it from dropping down. Beyond, he could see a long staircase up to another level. In amoungst the debris was a workman's toolbox, its contents spread across the floor. Mixed in with all the various tools and parts was a large cast-iron pipe wrench, the kind used by plumbers and fitters when they really needed to clamp down on something. Jack reached down and picked it up, feeling its reassuring weight in his hand. He gave it a few practice swings and decided it was as good as anything.

Using his hands to move the smaller stuff, and the wrench to smash or lever the larger pieces out of the way, Jack managed to clear a small hole in the debris blocking the door, big enough for him to crouch under. Jack crouched down and awkwardly shuffled under the broken door, looking up and hoping that the door wouldn't pick _this_ moment to fall clear. Stepping through the wreckage, Jack looked up in time to see a shadowed figure push a large, fiery object down the flight of stairs. Jack dove back through the opening, just as the fiery item crashed into the door frame and collapsed with a shower of embers.

Jack cautiously stuck his head through the door and looked around. The flaming object had in fact been a sofa, and now lay in a small, burning heap in the corner, evidently not up to a trip down a flight of stairs. Whoever had pushed the couch was gone, apparently not sticking around to see what damage he'd caused. Carefully, with wrench in hand, Jack walked up the long staircase. The room was apparently some sort of lobby or waiting area for new arrivals to the city.

Jack caught movement to his right. He turned, just in time to see something coming towards him very quickly. He jumped back, just in time to avoid a savage blow to his head. Instinctively, Jack swung the wrench as hard as he could at the onrushing shape. It connected with a sickening crunch, sending a painful jar up his arm. Jack stood still for a moment, breathing heavily, trying to come to grips with what was going on. _It had happened so _fast_,_ he thought, a glimpse of movement, a quick jump, a swing of the arm, and it was all over.

Cautiously, Jack approached the still shape on the floor. It was a man, or at least it had been. His clothes looked like they had once been nice enough, but were now dirty and torn, like he hadn't changed them in some time. Through the holes and tears, whatever skin Jack could see was ghostly white, almost translucent, as if he hadn't seen the sun in a long time. Which, Jack reflected, he probably hadn't, remembering the signs he had seen at the bathysphere station.

Jack shifted his gaze uneasily to the man's head. Like the women he saw earlier, he was wearing some kind of rabbit mask over his face, this one missing one of its ears. Jack gingerly lifted the mask off with the end of his wrench. What he saw made him recoil in horror. The man's face was twisted and distorted, like candle wax that had been softened and allowed to drip. A massive flap of skin hung from his forehead, covering his right eye. The eye that was visible was a brilliant blue, and would have been quite handsome in life, but was now glazed and blank. As if this wasn't bad enough, the was a visible dent in the man's left temple where Jack's wrench had hit him, and already the skin around it was starting to bruise, blood trickling out his ear.

Jack walked over and collapsed in a nearby chair, too stunned to notice it was damp and mouldering. That was when he first noticed his hands were shaking. _I killed a man_ he though to himself. He'd thought that part of his life was over. Instantly he was transported back to the horrors he'd seen in Germany during the Second World War. To stop his hands from shaking, Jack spun the chair around and set them on a large circular table. Sitting on the opposite side of the table was what appeared to be a blue lunch thermos. Jack reached over and grabbed it, carefully unscrewing the cap and sniffing its contents. Against all odds, it seemed to be coffee, hot coffee, here at the bottom of the ocean.

He poured the coffee into the lid and drank it quickly, the reassuring warmth spreading down his throat. Halfway through his second cup he realized guiltily that he was probably drinking the dead man's coffee. With that realization came another, that if he hadn't killed that man, Jack would be the one lying on the floor, and his assailant would be drinking this coffee. Jack had heard stories of people forced to kill in self defense, "him or me" situations, but he had never fully appreciated the difficulty those people had faced until now. He'd killed people in the war, but this was different, he was a civilian now, and he'd vowed to never again kill.

Buoyed by the coffee and the fact he had survived two encounters with the mad denizens of the city, Jack got up and started to look around the lobby. Directly across from where he came in was a large ornate door, its frame made from beautiful opaque glass and chromed metal. However, when Jack approached it, it remained still. There was a lever mounted on the left side of the door frame, but when Jack tried to use it, he was rewarded with a flash of sparks and a mild shock. He tried using the wrench to force the lever, his hand wrapped in his shirt to protect from further shocks, but nothing worked.

Defeated, Jack turned away from the door and looked around the room for something larger to lever the door. A large bronze case by the wall caught his eye. Walking over he saw it was a large display case. Inside was a stylized model of the city. Underneath was a large plaque, engraved with the words "City Of Rapture, Established Nov. 5 1946. One Man's Vision, Mankind's Salvation." Jack surveyed the wreckage strewn about the room and hoped mankind could do a little better.

Finding nothing that could help him open the door, Jack turned to search the balcony overlooking the lobby. Jack had missed it when he had first entered the room, as it was directly over the doorway he came in by. Two sets of stairs, one either side of the door, lead up to the second level. However, one had collapsed and was burning, leaving Jack only one way up. On the wall at the base of the stairs there was a massive, intricate mural painted on the wall. It depicted a number of people doing seemingly inhuman feats, lifting massive loads, lighting fires with their fingers, shooting bolts of electricity. Text across the top of the mural read "Evolve Today!" A large neon sign showing a hand shooting lightning was flashing brightly, with the word "Plasmid" spelled out above.

Jack was disappointed to find nothing at the top of the stairs, just a railing and a few trashcans. Set back against the wall, however, was some kind of strange vending machine, painted a lurid combination of pink and white. On either side of the machine there was a three foot high statue of a little girl in a pink dress, an unsettling smile spread across its blank face. A large round sign on the top proclaimed the machine was a "Gather's Garden." The actual body of the machine was similar to an old-fashioned soda machine, with a row of little compartments, all sealed with a glass door. However, Jack couldn't see anywhere to insert any money.

Then Jack saw that there was some kind of bottle or jar sitting in a recessed opening on the machine's front. It was shaped kind of like an apple, with silver bands running from the bottom to an ornate stopper. Sitting next to the bottle was a large glass syringe. Jack carefully picked up the bottle, surprised by its weight. The liquid inside was a bright red, so bright it seemed to actually be glowing in the semi-darkness of the balcony. A layer of dark sediment sat at the bottom of the container. What Jack had thought was a stopper was actually a cap protecting a layer of very thin foil, the kind used to keep medicine fresh until needed, when a doctor would then pierce the foil with a syringe…

Thinking about it later Jack would never be able to answer _why_ he did it. It went against every instinct he had, against all common sense. Jack picked up the syringe, inspecting it. It appeared to be clean, but Jack had no way of knowing. Lifting the jar, Jack gave it a gentle shake, until the dark sediment at the bottom disappeared. Taking the syringe in his right hand, he carefully stuck the tip through the foil on the top and pulled out the plunger. The large square reservoir quickly filled with the bright red substance. The syringe had graduations, but without knowing what it was or the correct dose, Jack simply filled it up completely.

Setting the jar back down on the machine, Jack rolled up his left fist and made a fist, pumping it to expose a vein in his elbow. Jack gave the needle a few gentle flicks with his finger to dislodge any air bubbles. Jack took a few deep breaths to nerve himself up. Then, he took one deep breath, at the same time inserting the needle and depressing the plunger.

Aside from the pain of the needle itself, Jack felt nothing. Looking down, he could actually see the glow from the liquid through his skin, but almost instantly it faded as his body circulated the chemical through his system. Half a minute ticked by, and just as Jack was about to write it off as a stupid and unsuccessful experiment, it began.

At first it was merely a mild tingle at the injection site. Jack gave his arm a few shake to get rid of the feeling, but rather then help, it seemed to spread the feeling, and now his whole arm felt like it was asleep. The feeling was definitely getting stronger, and more painful. Then Jack saw the underside of his arm and got really scared. The veins and arteries of his forearm and hand were glowing a bright, electric blue. Even as he watched, the glow was slowly spreading to the tips of his fingers.

The pain from his arm was becoming unbearable, searing jolts that started in his arm and spread throughout his entire body. Every jolt made it harder and harder to think. Jack began to stagger around, unable to concentrate. He tried to grab his left arm with his right in an effort to stop the spread of the blue light. As soon as his arms made contact there was an audible crack and a staggering wave of pain shot up his right hand. Before his eyes he saw electricity surging through his fingers, sending out sparks when they touched, arcing between the gaps of his fingers.

Despite his agony he could still clearly hear Atlas talking to him through the shortwave:

"Steady now! Your genetic code is being re-written – just hold on and everything will be fine!"

Jack was in such pain he could barely stand, and every jolt sent him stumbling. Too late he realized he had staggered across the balcony and was now up against the railing. A final jot and Jack became aware of a falling sensation. He looked down to see the lobby floor rushing up at him. There was a final jolt of pain in his shoulder and back, and then everything faded to black.

Jack slowly came to a state of semi-consciousness, his back and shoulder aching and his head throbbing painfully. He slowly cracked an eye open, wincing as the light sent a fresh jolt of pain through his skull. His eyes didn't seem to want to focus, leaving everything blurry and distorted. He tried to move, but found his limbs wouldn't move, as though he was fighting back an impossibly thick ocean. His vision sharpened momentarily, and two of the blurry images resolved into two men, one crouching over him, another nervously standing guard.

"This little fish looks like he just had his cherry popped..." the crouching splicer laughed. His voice was gravelly and wet, like he was talking with a mouthful of water. "Wonder if he's still got some ADAM on him?"

Jack felt something cold and metallic dance across his stomach. He didn't need to see it to know it was a knife blade.

The other man's head suddenly snapped up.

"You hear that? Let's bug!" he said, tugging on his partner's shirt.

The first man slapped his hand away. "Weak! You're a weak chopper!' he said contemptuously.

There was a loud noise, and the nervous man took off, calling back as he ran. "This little fish ain't worth toein' it with no Big Daddy!"

The man crouching over Jack yelled after him. "Yellow! Always have been!"

He turned to Jack, looking him right in the eye. "You're no better off with the Big Daddy, little fish; see you floating in the briney."

With that, he took off after his friend. Darkness quickly crept back to Jack, and he slowly closed his eyes…

… He opened them to a loud crash not 12 inches from his face. He had no idea how long it had been since he had closed his eyes, there was no sun down here to mark the passage of time, all he knew was tired, like he was jet-lagged, and it occurred to him he couldn't remember the last time he had slept. He carefully studied the thing that had woken him from the depths of unconsciousness.

It was a boot, a massive armoured boot. The fabric appeared to be some sort of rubberized canvas, very old, judging by the staining and discoloration. The toe cap, sole and heel were all steel, rusted and pitted from long immersion in salt water. Whatever wore the boot seemed to be emitting a low grumble or gurgle, like a whale or walrus. Before Jack could continue his study of the boot's occupant any further, a second pair of feet appeared.

In contrast, these feet were tiny and bare. They were attached to a pair of equally dirty, emaciated legs that continued up before meeting a filthy little pink dress. Jack realized with a start that it was a little girl, roaming around in the company of the giant armoured man.

Due to her much shorter stature, Jack could see much more of the little girl from his position on the floor. At first Jack feared she was a splicer, she certainly looked the part, the same filthy, ripped clothes and translucent skin. Her shoulder length hair was matted and tangled. But most disturbingly, in her right hand she carried a very large hypodermic needle. Attached to it was a large glass reservoir, one that seemed to have a rubber nipple on it, like a baby bottle.

She turned to her companion and spoke, her voice resonating with a strange echoing quality.

"Look Mr. Bubbles, it's an angle - I can see light coming from his belly!"

Jack felt a sharp jab in his stomach, and knew with grim certainty that the girl had just inserted her long needle into his belly. Instinctively, he gasped and curled up slightly, as much as his still-foggy mind would allow. This seemed to startle the girl, for she jumped back, removing the tip of the needle.

"Wait a minute, he's still breathing." She said, sounding disappointed. Her partner seemed to rumble some sort of response, as she replied. Then Jack got his biggest shock. The little girl bent over to look at him, and when she did, Jack got a look at her eyes. They glowed with a sickening pale orange light, with no visible pupil, iris, or cornea visible, just a glowing orb, like some sort of sick doll lit from within

"It's alright, I know he'll be an angle soon enough."

Seemingly satisfied with her own answer, she padded off quietly, her armoured companion thumping along behind like a dog after its master.

The pain from the girl's needle seemed to intensify, and again Jack's head began to swim, the darkness creeping across his vision, before he plunged once more into the black.

Jack's return to consciousness was again prompted by a grating noise. Unlike previous times, Jack began to recover almost immediately, and he felt much more alert and awake then before, making him wonder how long he'd been out this time. Slowly, he rose to s sitting position, wincing slightly.

He gently rotated his shoulder, clockwise then counter-clockwise, testing it for damage. Aside from some mild pain and what he imagined was a sea of bruises, his arm and shoulder seemed to be alright. A quick check of his head revealed nothing worse then a large bump under his hair, he was fine, much better then he had any right to be. Remembering the girl, he lifted up his shirt and checked his stomach. There was an angry red mark where the girl had stuck in the needle, but it wasn't bleeding, so he figured it was good for now.

Jack's radio was crackling and hissing. He pulled it off his belt and re-set the dials, amazed it had survived the trip over the balcony. It was then Jack made an important discovery. The trip over the balcony had dislodged a panel form the back of the radio. Jack had at first thought it was the battery compartment, but closer inspection revealed a small ear piece and a wire. Tucking the earbud into his ear, he could now hear Atlas without having to worry about the radio giving him away.

"You all right, boyo?" Atlas asked, concern tingling his gruff voice. "First time plasmids a real kick from a mule. But there's nothing like a fistful of lightning now is there?"

Atlas' words brought what had happened sharply into focus. He lifted his arm and began inspecting it. Aside from a red mark where he had inserted the needle, his arm was fine. He began to wonder if everything that had happened on the balcony had been some sort of hallucination, a reaction to whatever was in the vial.

But as soon as Jack thought about it, the blue light returned, radiating out from the injection site along his forearm and up his shoulder. Jack rotated his arm for inspection, eyes wide with wonder. The light in his veins pulsed slowly, arcs of electricity jumped back and forth between his spread fingers. Gone was the agonizing pain from before, Jack could only feel a mild tingling.

By alternately concentrating on either how his arm normally looked or how it looks now, Jack found he could turn the ability "off" at will. Jack stood there for several minutes, deriving great pleasure from watching the blue light recede along his arm, only to send it flashing back along his arm.

Jack decided to experiment with his new-found ability. With electricity surging along his arm, Jack walked over to one of the floor lamps over by the wall. With his right arm Jack reached over and flicked the light switch several times. The lamp stayed dark. Perfect.

Jack grabbed the lamp with his electrified arm, small arcs jumping from his hand to the lamp's polished bronze pillar as it got close. With his hand closed around the lamp, Jack concentrated on electrifying the lamp. The tingling in his arm increased one hundred-fold for a split second. For a brief instant the light flared extremely bright, causing Jack to shield his eyes with his free arm. A good thing too, because the light bulb then exploded, showering Jack with fragments of hot glass.

Testing further, Jack aimed his arm at a similar lamp across the destroyed lobby. In his mind he imagined the bolt of energy shooting from his hand to the lamp. Like before there was a massive increase in the tingle of his arm, although this time it lasted for at least a second. There was a loud snap, like a crack of thunder, and a brilliant blue bolt of energy shot between Jack's hand and the lamp, again causing it to momentarily flash before bursting the bulb.

Jack lowered his arm and smiled. Suddenly he wasn't as worried about running into that woman from the entrance. A though suddenly struck Jack. He walked back over to the jammed door, and taking aim at the damaged control box, sent a bolt of electricity surging into it. The energy shot through the door's systems, providing the momentary power needed to open it. The Welcome to Rapture sign lit for an instant, and a short little tune played from a speaker hidden somewhere in the door's frame.

Feeling pretty pleased with himself, Jack strolled through the doorway. It was connected to one of the glass tunnels he had seen on his way in. Despite the fact that the tunnel was attached to the skyscraper approximately midway up its height and was several hundred feet above the ocean floor, Jack was surprised to see massive stone pillars extend up past the tunnel, some nearly the height of the building itself. Jack surmised it was easier to build around the columns then it was to blast and remove them.

Jack could see a multitude of items and debris from his plane crash was just now making its way down to the ocean bottom. There was no way to tell how long he'd been down there, and he couldn't remember what time it had been when the plane had crashed. The items that were just now reaching this depth were very light, purses, clothes, paper, things like that. Jack knew it could take hours for such items to sink the two miles to the ocean bottom.

As Jack stood there and watched the debris raining down from the surface, something on top of one of the larger stone pillars caught his eye. Somehow, the rear section of the plane had come to rest at the top of the column. Jack didn't believe it at first and thought it must be from another plane. But even as he thought it he knew it couldn't be true. There were still air bubbles seeping out from the cabin section. The little red light on the tail somehow defied all logic and still blinked occasionally.

Jack's observations were cut short by a low, ominous rumbling. The tunnel began to shake, gently at first but with more and more force as it went on. Stumbling, Jack reached out and grabbed one of the tunnel braces for support. He had figured out what was going on almost immediately; the area must be prone to undersea earthquakes.

Jack wasn't particularly worried. Whoever built this place must have known these quakes were a possibility and planned accordingly. This probably wasn't the first quake the buildings had sustained, and obviously they hadn't collapsed yet. All of a sudden Jack heard a new noise, the grating of metal over rock. He looked up and saw that the quake had dislodged the segment of airplane on the pillar, and it was now falling towards the bottom on a shallow angle. With horror he saw that the piece was going to hit the tunnel roof.

Jack ran as fast as he could, trying to get past the point where the plane was going to hit the tunnel wall. Racing the sinking plane, he ran full bore. Jack almost made it. The plane clipped the top of a neighboring tunnel before it hit the wall about three feet in front of him, crashing through to the sound of broken glass and the rush of water. Fortunately the plane didn't have the momentum to completely sever the tunnel.

A wave of ice cold water engulfed Jack and washed him back up the tunnel. Sputtering for breath, he jumped to his feet and raced back towards the ruined lobby. Too late he saw that the large steel door had closed when the tunnel had been breeched. A red light over the door illuminated a sign saying "airlock active".

His way back blocked, Jack had no choice but to try to go forward. Hugging the tunnel wall and using the braces to pull himself forward against the rush of water, Jack worked his way towards the plane fragment. He had to hurry, the waters in his section of tube was already waist deep. Any hope Jack had of getting past the wreckage was crushed as he got closer. The plane had broken on a 45-degree angle, making one side of the cabin wall longer then the other. He could get past the plane's right wall, but not the left.

With the water level climbing, Jack desperately moved into what was left of the plane's cabin, climbing up on the seats to get out of the water. He was trapped in the tunnel segment, doomed to drown in the very same plane he'd already escaped once before. Franticly scanning the cabin, he saw that the rear door of the plane was intact, and was actually _inside_ the tunnel! If he could force it open, allowing him to reach the other side.

He ran over and twisted the latch. No luck. The frame of the door had been twisted when the plane crashed, jamming it shut. Taking a step back, Jack put his shoulder forward and charged the door, slamming into it with as much force as he could muster. It opened about an inch, wide enough to jam his wrench in and lever it open the rest of the way. He tumbled through, propelled by the water that had been building up in the cabin.

Jack ran down the corridor as fast as he could. As he watched, he saw cracks racing through the glass along side him, threatening to implode the tunnel at any moment. A low bang rumbled through the water, like an inflated paper bag being popped underwater. He looked across to the nearby tunnel. The tail section had damaged the ceiling, and, unable to withstand the strain, collapsed. Jack watched as a literal wall of water surged through the damaged tunnel.

Jack was approaching a T-intersection leading to the damaged tunnel. As he watched, the wall of water slammed into the reinforced door separating them. The door bulged but didn't fail. Jack raised his arms over his face to ward of a high-pressure jet of water surging through cracks in the heavily damaged doors.

Jack reached the end of the tunnel with the water swirling around his knees. Fortunately this door was open, and Jack tumbled through it. As soon as it closed he slammed his fist onto the door's locking button. Only then did Jack turn and survey the room he was in. It was set up as another lounge, a central walkway with stairs on either side leading down to sitting areas. The power was out here, forcing Jack to tread carefully.

The left side area yielded nothing but another pile of suitcases. The right side was empty except for a single lonely corpse. It was a man, seated on the floor against one of the large floor to ceiling windows. The top of the window was leaking, pouring a steady stream of water onto the body in a final act of ignobility. Beside him sat a suit case and one of the protest signs he'd seen in the lobby.

Judging by the smell and the motley, grey colour and texture of his skin, he'd been there for sometime. Like the man in the lobby his skin was warped and deformed. Jack felt a wave of pity for the poor man, whose only sin had been trying to get out of this god-forsaken hellhole.

Jack checked the man's suitcase for anything that might be useful but left anything he had on his body alone. He left the man alone and returned to examining the room. There was a newspaper box against the wall, but Jack couldn't get the door open, and in any case he could see through the window that the papers inside had dissolved into a wet, moldy mass.

He returned to the center aisle and began climbing another set of stairs towards the exit. But as he started up, the doors at the top slid apart to reveal a shadowy figure waiting at the top. In his hand he swung a section of pipe. With a savage howl he launched himself down the stairs at Jack.

Atlas had evidently be watching or monitoring Jack's progress somehow, because the radio crackled to life almost at the same instant.

"Splicer! Give'em the combo- zap 'em then whack 'em. One-two punch! Remember, the one-two punch!"

Even before Atlas had warned him Jack had raised his arm, now glowing with its familiar blue energy. Again he concentrated on sending the bolt of energy towards his target. There was a crack and the bolt discharged into the attacker's body. He stopped dead in his tracks, dropping his weapon. The bolt had paralyzed him. Jack wasted no time, running up to the incapacitated man and delivering a savage blow to the man's skull. He crumpled to the floor without a sound, killed instantly.

Jack felt no remorse this time; he knew it was survival of the fittest down here. He quickly wiped the gore-spattered wrench on the man's clothes and checked his pockets for anything useful. Finding nothing, he stepped past the corpse and continued up the stairs.

The double doors opened into a vast atrium, a great open space five stories tall. Jack could see a series of balconies set into the back wall. Massive banners hung from rods projecting from the walls, emblazoned with words like "Creativity" and "Ascendancy." A pair of tasteful rock gardens were set into the floor on either side of the entrance, serving to funnel people along towards their destination. A small privacy wall separated the back third of the room from the rest. Jack could see a series of metal tracks rising up from behind the wall, elevator shafts he guessed.

Jack could hear voices arguing, drifting down from one of the upper balconies. The voices were muffled, the words indistinct, but Jack could tell from their tone and speed that they were fighting. The conversation became more and more heated until it was suddenly cut-off by an explosion on the top level. Jack could see the flash from his position on the bottom floor. A ball of flame came barreling down one of the elevator shafts, crashing into the floor with a loud crash and a cloud of smoke and sparks.

The echo from the crash had barely subsided before a long ragged scream tore through the air. A man came tearing out of the elevator shaft, his clothes on fire. He was seemingly unaware or unworried by the flames that were licking at his body. His wild, roving eyes settled on Jack, and with an animal roar he ran at him as fast as possible.

Jack ducked the man's first wildly aimed strike, rolling to the left and jumping over a bench, getting something between him and the crazed man. With the man's clothes on fire he couldn't get close enough to use his wrench, his only option was to stay out of his way and hope the flames incapacitated him soon. Trying to buy time, Jack grabbed one of the rocks out of the gardens and threw it at the splicer as hard as he could.

The rock struck him on the shoulder, spinning him around. But aside from another growl, he it was as if the rock hadn't even been there. Jack leapt back, dodging another powerful but poorly-aimed blow. The flames were taking their toll. The splicer left a trail of blood wherever he went, and Jack could smell the man's flesh cooking even from ten feet away. The man tripped over the edge of one of the rock gardens and fell face-first onto the ground.

Jack seized his chance. He grabbed one of the larger rocks and, lifting it over his head, slammed it down on the burning man's head. He twitched a few time then went quiet, his clothes still smoldering gently.

Jack sat down heavily on one of the benches that were arranged around the rock gardens, winded by the fight. He sat there with his head tilted back, watching fish swim around outside the massive glass ceiling five stories overhead. He reached into his pocket and ate one of the candy bars he'd taken off one of the dead splicers. Eventually he felt recovered enough to continue.

There was a large clock mounted on the privacy wall, right above the doorway to the elevators, like those you would find in a train station. It showed the time was around six-thirty, but as Jack watched, he saw it had stopped. When he went through the door and examined the back of the clock he saw that its workings had been destroyed.

There were six elevators located at the back of the atrium, three on either side of the door. They weren't modern, enclosed cars like those found in modern buildings, but the intricate caged-in cars seen in older antique buildings. Each shaft was protected by an ornate metal grill. Several of the doors had little out-of-order signs on them, and a large sandwich board style sign advertised an elevator repair company.

Only one of the elevators had a car at Jack's level, and as he couldn't find a call button, this was the only way to continue on. As soon as the elevator detected Jack's weight the grill slid closed and the elevator began its ascent upwards. Evidently it was some sort of express elevator, as there was no floor selector, and it shot past several floors without stopping. Jack saw a splicer pounding on a door on one of the lower levels as he sped past.

There was a burst of static on the radio. Atlas' rich brogue came in over the small speaker in his ear. He hesitated for a moment before he began to speak, as if unsure how to start.

"Listen- I've got a family. I need to get them out of here. But the splicers have cut me off from them. If you can reach them in Neptune's Bounty, then maybe, just maybe-" His words had become faster and faster as he spoke. He stopped, trying to collect his thoughts.

"I know you must feel like the unluckiest man in the world right now, but you're the only hope I'll ever see my wife and child again. Go to Neptune's Bounty… find my family… please."

Jack stood there quietly, thinking about what he'd just been asked. Atlas, a man he barely knew, was asking him to risk his life and go deeper into this nightmarish city. Part of him wanted to ignore the request and focus on finding away out of here. But even as he thought this he chastised himself for it. Atlas hadn't steered him wrong yet, hell he'd saved Jack's life at least once. And now he was asking Jack to help save an innocent woman and child from the monsters that lurked down here. The rational part of him also decided that trying to save the woman and child was the right thing to do, as it might get _him_ out of here too.

The elevator rapidly slowed as it approached the top floor, coming to a smooth stop at the top with a soft chime. There was a door off to Jack's left, but when he tried to open it the door remained closed. Left with only one option, Jack had no choice but to continue to the right. Over the exit a large sign proclaimed he was now entering the Kashmir Restaurant.

All of a sudden Jack heard a voice drifting from somewhere inside the restaurant, a woman's voice, soft and soothing. Jack quietly padded over to the wall, pressing his back against it, listening to the voice. The woman must have been standing in front of some sort of light, as she cast a large, well-defined shadow on the wall behind her, allowing Jack to easily observe her movements without exposing himself.

She was standing over a stroller, cooing to whatever was inside, singing nursery rhymes and gently rocking the stroller. As Jack listened, he could hear the grief in the woman's voice as she sang, her voice wracked with sobs. She was asking whatever was in the stroller why it wouldn't move, why it no longer laughed or cried.

Jack started to feel sick to his stomach, unable to accept what was going on. A seething ball of rage was building in his chest. Unable to stand it anymore, Jack leapt out from his hiding place with a yell, the electricity already coursing down his arm. The woman started and jumped back when Jack emerged, but quickly recovered and charged towards him, swinging a piece of pipe she'd pulled from under the baby carriage.

Jack launched his electricity bolt at her, but running had affected his aim, and the bolt caught her in the shoulder, causing her to scream in pain. Onward she came, her paralyzed arm hanging limply at her side. Jack tried to use his electricity again, but aside from a small flash, nothing happened.

The raving woman swung a vicious one-handed swing at his head. Jack barely got his wrench up in time to ward off the blow. The two weapons hit with an arm-numbing smash, sending off a flash of sparks as they clashed. Jack's arm seared with pain, but the splicer seemed barely affected, already drawing back for another blow.

Jack lashed out with his empty hand, connecting with the woman's neck. The residual charge in his arm shot into her body, not enough to kill her but enough to send her reeling back, an angry black burn on her throat. Jack swung his wrench in a wide arc, hitting her weapon-arm and causing her to drop it

The splicer screamed in rage and lunged forward, her weapon forgotten. Strong, muscular fingers wrapped around Jack's throat. Her momentum knocked him over, landing on his back with her hands still at her throat. Jack's left hand struggled to pry her fingers off his neck while he rained a series of weak, ineffectual blows on her with his wrench.

Jack's vision was beginning to fade. The woman's strength was incredible. Jack's fingernails had torn her hands and forearms open in a dozen places, streaks of dark red blood trickling down her arm, yet the tightness of her grip never relaxed an inch. Gathering his strength for one final blow, Jack reversed his wrench and delivered a savage blow to the woman's kidneys with the tip of the handle.

She screamed, and her grip loosened marginally. Seizing the opportunity, Jack took a deep, choking breath. Quickly he drew his left hand back and slammed a vicious cross into the woman's jaw. The strength of the blow knocked her off him, shattering her jaw in the process.

Instantly Jack was on top of her, using his hands to force the wrench across her throat, blocking her windpipe. Her arms were pinned to her chest by Jack's knees, leaving her only able to flex her back and try to dislodge Jack.

Gradually her struggles became weaker and weaker, until eventually her motion ceased and she went limp. Jack kept the wrench held against her throat for several more minutes, making sure she was dead. Eventually he got up, taking a few unsteady steps. Tucking the wrench in his belt, ready to be quickly grabbed if required, he reached over and felt her neck. There was no pulse, and her eyes were already going glassy. He reached over and gently closed them, then crossed her arms into a more dignified position.

Jack took a few steps and sank to the ground, exhausted. The adrenalin from his desperate fight had worn off, leaving him feeling tried and drained. His arm was sore from when he'd blocked the splicer's blow, and already his throat was starting to bruise, making every breath painful. Most disconcertingly, his electricity attack was gone. At first he had thought it was just stress from the battle, but even now all attempts to summon up the blue energy failed. Jack was more than a little concerned; so far the electrical attacks had been crucial to his survival.

Jack's eyes snapped open. He didn't even remember closing them. Evidently his fight with the woman had taken more out of him then he had thought. He lay on the floor for a moment, listing for anything. Aside from the ever-present sounds of creaking metal and flowing water, everything was quiet. Painfully, Jack stood up, stretching his kinked muscles after hi sleep on the hard floor. It was then that he saw the baby carriage and remembered what had made him mad in the first place. The confusion of his fight with the woman he'd completely forgotten.

Apprehensively, Jack approached the stroller. After everything he had seen in this city, Jack tried to steel himself as to what he might find. A part of his mind told him to forget the carriage, to not look. Peering into the stroller, Jack saw there was a large, handmade blanket in the stroller. A tiny, still object sat under the blanket, looking very small in the large stroller. Feeling worse and worse, Jack carefully pulled back the edge of the blanket.

Abruptly Jack's feelings of unease turned to confusion. The lump hadn't been a child; it had been a gun, a revolver to be more precise. Tossing aside the blanket, Jack reached in and pulled out the weapon. Whoever owned this pistol had gone to considerable lengths to keep it in pristine condition. True, there were small patches of rust marring the barrel's chrome finish, and the varnish on the gun's wooden hilt was starting to peel, but otherwise it was in perfect shape.

Jack expertly cracked the cylinder, reveling six .38 specials in the gun, their copper casings starting to turn green. He gave the cylinder an experimental spin, and was rewarded when it spun freely, emitting a series of rapid clicks. Satisfied, Jack cocked the pistol and put it in his pocket.

Jack looked down into the empty stroller and then back to the woman lying on the floor some distance away. He wondered what could have caused this city, seemingly a pinnacle of human achievement, to go so wrong.

Almost as if he could read Jack's mind, Atlas chose this moment to speak up.

"Plasmids changed everything," he said quietly, "they destroyed our bodies, our minds, we couldn't handle it. Best friends butchering each other, babies strangled in cribs, the whole city went to hell."

Jack couldn't help but agree, given what he'd seen. He was also vaguely worried about what Atlas had said about plasmids being the cause of this. Jack had already applied one plasmid to his genetic structure; how many more before he became that woman on the floor nearby?

The doorway at the opposite end of the mezzanine was locked, and so was the elevator, leaving Jack with only one way forward. At the end of the hall was a large archway, leading into a plush, fancy lobby. A large neon sign over the arch identified it as the Kashmir restaurant.

Jack carefully edged towards the entrance. Fortunately the doors hung open, eliminating any creaks or groans that might have come from opening them. Jack's wartime experience was coming back to him, and his practiced eye took in the scene in an instant.

The restaurant covered two levels, a bottom floor that served as the restaurant proper, and an upper mezzanine that served as a fancy upscale cocktail lounge, where Jack was now. In the center of the room was a circular bar that cleverly disguised a pillar supporting the ceiling. The left wall was dominated by a massive two-story window, offering a staggering view of the ocean beyond.

Whatever was happening down here had hit this place hard. Spread all around were the detritus of war and conflict: broken glass and cookware, bullet holes and casings, there was terrible fire damage to parts of the décor, revealing the stark structural elements of the city.

Oddly it seemed that most of the damage and fighting had taken place long before now. All the open bottles that had survived the actual fight were empty, their contents nothing but sticky residue on the bottom. A fine layer of dust and ash covered most surfaces; the air itself was stale, with only trace hints of smoke, burnt metal and rotten food. His suspicions were confirmed when a large neon sign suddenly flickered to life, wishing him a happy year for 1959, over a year before.

A little ways away from the door a railing near the side of the room marked the location of a stairway down to the lower level. Past that was a small area the served as a cloakroom, as well as allowing access to the restrooms. Having ruled out the restrooms as having anything of interest, Jack decided on the stairs.

As Jack approached the stairs, voices became distinguishable against the background noise of the city. Jack couldn't make out any specific words, but their tone was angry or exasperated.

Crouching down, Jack drew the revolver and silently crept down the stairs. When he reached the landing midway down he pressed his back against the wall and listened. Just on the other side of the landing was a doorway leading into the employee areas of the restaurant. A spliced man was pounding on the doors with a section of pipe and screaming at a woman named Brenda, who was apparently just inside the locked doors and screaming back at the man called Charlie.

Jack quickly peeped over the edge of the wall, judging the man's position and distance. All his past experiences with splicers told him that this man couldn't be reasoned with and would likely attack him as soon as he saw Jack. Ha sat back down and contemplated the revolver in his hand. Up till now the people he had killed had all been in self-defense. But even as he thought that he remembered the woman with the stroller. He suddenly realized that even if he struck first, it would still be defense. It was a case of striking first and striking fast.

Jack drew the hammer back on the revolver, wincing at the slight click it made. He paused for a moment, waiting to see if the man had heard anything, but apparently the sound had been drowned out by the screaming and pounding. Jack took several deep, cleansing breaths, steeling himself for what he had to do.

Taking one final breath, Jack leapt to his feet, spinning around and raising the pistol as he did so. Time seemed to slow. The barrel of the pistol slowly drew a bead on the man's head. Just as the sights lined up, some sixth sense made the splicer look up. The shock had just begun to register on his face when Jack's finger tightened on the trigger.

The gun's report sounded oddly quiet, its sound swallowed by the size of the room and the soft material that covered the walls. The bullet entered just off of the splicer's left temple, sending a spray of blood and bone onto the opposite wall. The man dropped without a sound.

The women behind the door had stopped yelling, and now she was calling out Charlie's name almost plaintively. The doors opened, apparently unlocked by Brenda from the inside. She stepped out and let out a wail of anguish when she saw Charlie's body.

It took only a second's glimpse to see that Brenda too was a splicer. It was readily obvious, with her skin hanging in unnatural folds and flaps from her face. Moreover her left hand held a revolver similar to the one in his own hand. This was a foe much more dangerous than Charlie, caught unaware and under-armed.

With a lack of hesitation that surprised Jack as well as worried him, he leapt up once again from behind the wall and sighted on the woman's head.

How she heard detected his maneuver Jack would never know, but somehow she did. With incredible speed and agility she ducked, somersaulting to one side. Even as Jack compensated for her sudden movement she was up and on her feet, her own weapon pointed at him.

He was aware or a flash of light and a searing pain in his right bicep. But unfortunately for Brenda, her lust for revenge impaired her judgment. Instead of waiting a fraction of a second longer to confirm her aim, she fired too soon, missing her target. Even now as she fought to bring her gun's barrel back on target, Jack's own weapon came to bare and he fired.

But where the women's round went wide, the split second longer that Jack took to aim proved crucial. The single round entered the women's chest and penetrated the heart. He eyes widened in shock. She tried to raise her gun again but her arm failed her, remaining at her side. As if in slow motion, she sank to the floor.

Jack, too, found he could barely keep his arms up. What had once been a dull ache in his arm, tempered by adrenalin was now burning agony. He could feel warm liquid trickling down his arm, hitting the stone floor in an audible patter. A quick glance at it served to reassure him somewhat. While significantly more than a scratch, it had missed the bone and arteries, instead hitting the muscle before exiting out the back. Barring an infection, it should heal fine given time.

Un-cocking his revolver and putting it back in his pocket; he slowly removed his belt, any rough movement accentuating the pain in his arm. Gritting his teeth, he looped the belt over his wounded arm and pulled it tight. The burst of pain nearly made him pass out. He sat still for several moments, soaking in the pain and waiting for it to diminish. Once it had subsided, he used his good arm to check his shirt pocket, fumbling awkwardly to retrieve something from the left side.

By some miracle, his handkerchief was still there, rumpled and still damp with salt water from the crash, but there nonetheless. Folding it lengthwise into a thick strip, he wrapped it around the wound, wincing as the saltwater stung him.

Reasonably assured he wasn't going to bleed to death, Jack stood up and continued down to the restaurant's second level. While the first floor had been set up as a cocktail lounge, this floor served as a combination dining room and dancing space. Beside the staircase was the door to he kitchens, beside that the cashier's station.

The majority of the remaining floor space had been dedicated to dining tables, most of which were stacked in piles around the periphery of the room, although some remained in place. To the left, at the base of the massive wall of windows he'd seen from the cocktail lounge, a series of steps led down to a large open area or hardwood flooring, perfect for dancing.

The center of the dance floor was dominated by a massive metal statue of Atlas, the titan from Greek mythology, cursed to forever bear the weight of the world on his shoulders. It was huge, over 20 feet tall, with the grim figure of Atlas seeming to emerge from a block of stone.

Half-way up its imposing height however the perfect lines and precise design of the statue gave way to a twisted mass of tangled steel. Whatever had been used to surface the statue had been torn or blown away, revealing the skeletal frame of the statue. Jack immediately recalled the bombed-out cites of Europe he'd been stationed in after the Second World War ended.

Turning away from the savaged statue, Jack went over to the two bodies by the kitchen doors. He quickly and efficiently checked the corpses for anything useful, but was left empty-handed. He then retrieved Brenda's pistol. While in much worse condition then his own, it was the same caliber, and Jack took the three remaining cartridges it contained, replacing the two he fired and pocketing the third.

The rumbling in his stomach dictated that Jack's next stop be the kitchen. When he pushed open the double doors however his hopes of finding something to eat were dashed. The kitchen had been tossed. Pots, pans and a hundred other kitchen utensils littered the floor, making even walking a hazard. The cupboard doors hung open on their hinges, those that were still mounted at all that is.

Jack began gingerly picking his way around the room, checking for any missed scraps. A few times he found a can or package that later turned out to be empty, and in one of the ovens he found an extremely burnt piece of meat that Jack had a sneaking suspicion was a cat, but other then that there was nothing.

The dry goods gone, Jack edged to the back of the room and began exploring the various ice lockers mounted in the wall, and which Jack noted looked a lot like a morgue. The power had failed a long time ago on the first one he opened, judging from the stench that wafted out when he opened it. Forcing down bile, Jack quickly slammed it closed and moved on.

The next two he opened were still working but empty. So when he threw open the final fourth one he wasn't expecting much. Like the others there was no food in this one either. Jack was about to slam the door when he saw something on the bottom shelf, at the back.

Bending down and reaching to the back, he grabbed the object and pulled. The bottom of the refrigerator was sticky from some long-forgotten spill, requiring a bit of force to break. It did so with a sudden snap. Jack, not expecting this, tumbled back, landing on his ass amid a pile of dirty pots and pans.

Nursing his sore spots, Jack sat up and examined the prize he clutched in his hands. Inside the fridge it had looked like a glass jar, and Jack had hoped the electric blue contents were some kind of juice. Instead he found himself holding a glass syringe, smaller but not unlike the one that had contained his Electro Bolt.

"That there's what you've been needin' boyo," Atlas told him through the earbud. "That there's a shot a' EVE. You noticed your Electro Bolt's been a might weak? Plasmids need power, pal, and that vial there's full of it."

Jack was conflicted. On the one hand he was still intimately aware of the pain the last thing he'd injected himself with had caused, but on the other hand no one could deny how useful the Electro Bolt had been so far. He eventually decided that the loss of his abilities was worse that any possible discomfort.


End file.
